A Parody of PUP's "DVP"

NSDV

My Brother thinks that I'm a freak

He's been rating me 1 star, left him on his own for a wedding

NayNay will get me my rating

Yeah, nothing's working and the future's looking bleak and I say

I took the escape hatch fast, get drunk and I can't shut up

she says i'm good for rising

I fucked up and now I'm in jail

Susan says she was like me once

I'm talking fast to get away

doing 180 to NayNay's wedding

Yeah, I'd be better off dead

I don't give a shit, I just don't wanna rate and I don't want to suck-up

I took the escape hatch fast, get drunk and I can't shut up
she says i'm good for rising
I fucked up and now I'm in jail
Susan says she was like me once

I'll drink 'til I'm riding a 4-wheeler
I'll be just fine I'm numb and loose feeling
I can't tell lies anymore

I took the escape hatch fast, get drunk and I can't shut up
she says i'm good for rising
fucked up and i'm clinked up

I just don't know what to do, guess I'll cuss with my cell neighbor
he says "I don't like your aura"
face-to-face venting
our faces become one, fuck.

Genes, Dreams, and Stars

"You wanna know how I did it...I never saved anything for the swim back."
                                                                                                           -Vincent

There is a boy, untouched, made of love
and heart, who dreams. He dreams
of roaring fires and golden galaxies and infinite -
he is rooted and blemished. A blot
within a series of numbers and letters and expectations.
His yearning is unheeded, forgotten in the face
of routine and law and superior breeding.

His blood pumps limits and life and envy, veins chilled by
the unavoidable warmth of imperfection. He scrubs
himself raw, a picture of pink knees and nose and chest,
jaw clenched and breath short and reaching - hopeful,
as he watches his body burn into dust.
His heart is full of stutter stops and starts, drowning in rivers
and spitting out curses - and keeps on. The world turns, oblivious.

His dreaming is hungry, ongoing and stumbling
and stealing. His limbs stretch, muscles aching, eyes crinkling
as he gazes up. The spinning of the earth and the burning
of rockets whisper of something beyond perfection, beyond
eyelashes and skin and bone. The world rumbles on, oblivious
to his pining, but he is borne of stars and possibility.
His genes are useless in the inky black.

He gazes up, adjusts his dreams,
and gets to work.

"So you don't much like civilization, Mr. Savage."

“So you don’t much like civilization, Mr. Savage.”*

In grief, the reflections of endless, walking mirrors

distort and clarify in their ugliness —

boy after boy, twin after twin, surge forward with glee,

pouncing on happiness, not truth. No,

not truth. Happiness is a balm that cleanses

and eases the poison of Shakespearean beauty.

Civilization defends, controls, observes. Holidays

and hatred mingle in the unrest of mothers

and sons and soma.

Civilization has shouldered the burden of love,

cast it aside in the quest of many, of much,

of pleasure and lust and place. Savage

are the tears of loss, of bared lips and teeth

crying “Liberty!”

“It hasn’t been very good for truth, of course. But it’s been very good for happiness.”**

This bold, searching world, a new world,

is heady. Delicious in manner and rules. Solid,

quiet - shared. The selfish are gone, consumed

by distance and science. Only the decanted remain. Willful

and practical are the citizens of the new world.

Boldness is sameness, hatched by design.

Helm holders linger over the possibilities: truth. Beauty. Happiness.

To choose is to know of Othello, orthodoxy, duty.

Duty to station and breeding above all else. The castes are cast

like concrete pillars,

immovable and always. To wish

for more is to ignore the perfection of Utopia. Why strive

for the punishment of oneness when all are within

fingertips’ reach to grasp and hold and trade?

Mr. Savage, take the whip, take beauty, take your words, words, words.

Civilization is paving a new world.

* (Huxley, 197)

** (Huxley, 205)

Okonkwo and John Chat

Two men, John and Okonkwo, hang side by side on a charred tree. Others hang around them but not close enough to talk to. 

"All I wanted was silence," Said John.

"And all I wanted was to live life as it had always been lived," Said Okonkwo. A slight breeze rustled them. "I've spent a long time here," continued Okonkwo, "I've reflected on a lot that has happened. Nothing else to do, especially when you remind me, white skin and all, of the Christians who came to my village. Those destroyers of culture made ferrets of my people."

"At least they weren't made into lambs of slaughter," John said staring at the eternal setting sun. "Or was it rising," John thought to himself, "war led them to that fate."

"I wrestled with many people in my life. I guess its fate I wrestle with the past while I hang on this tree," Okonkwo said strumming the rope. He sighed, "have you ever killed anyone before," he asked. John looked up at the rope he was hanging from. Okonkwo nodded in understanding. "I killed my son... adopted son, but the blood of the bond is thicker than the water of the womb," said Okonkwo. John compared the words to what he had seen, what he knew. 

John still fidgeted with the rope around his neck hoping to find a comfortable position but could never find it. Okonkwo merely swayed, with the tree branch they hung on creaking slightly. 

"And what if no bond was ever made. What if no silence existed to let you think," asked John.
"Then I guess we wouldn't be here, would we?" Okonkwo said with finality.
"No, we wouldn't," John said back. They hung there and thought, John let Shakespeare play in his mind and Okonkwo continued to reflect on what was.

Extended ending fanfiction!

(In finding John's corpse after the events at the end of Chapter 18)

Helicopter blades rocked the feet in fleeting motions of as they encircled close and far around John. The lighthouse was the compass housing to John's compass needle, and the sky was an open-faced sighting wire to lead the helicopters to him. The heather had turned to stinging nettles. The salt spray of the water was blood and mustard water. He couldn't overdose on the soma itself, but he could feel helpless to its power. He was poisoned with ideas and left to writhe in convulsions and agony of thoughts. He was helpless to its formless imitations of happiness and helpless to a world that would address him so politely as "Mr. Savage." The "Mister" a title of politeness to ease the burdens of incompatibility, and the "Savage" to remind him that he is without a name to civilization: an abomination of monogamy and Arabian trees and mothers. When they found him, they would question what would have been inside of that garden of mind that John had established with independent thoughts: a garden whose trees and flowers had been broken by their helicopter blades. It left behind only gnashed trunks and withered bloom. And they could see, as they finally ascended those lighthouse stares, a soul leaving a body and a soulless gaze's reflection on a world that could not contain a human being as it once existed in nature. Thus, it is the nature of the Savage to behave as reasonable as one never exposed to embryos or Orgy-Porgys could be. Thus, civilization will reflect on its past ways as incompatible with the current state of affairs for the betterment of society's happiness, productivity, and lasting human legacy. The Ford machine would never afford any less.

Brave New Oblivion

*endless barrage of sexual noises, drug-induced euphoria, and mini-golf.

The Hollow Men

"The Hollow Men"
T.S. Eliot

Part I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when 
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour, 
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other kingdom 
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men 
The stuffed men. 

A Bedtime Poem by Joseph Goebbels

Listen up, children
Gather 'round before bed
And listen to a tale
Of what Fascistates said

He was old and wise
And lived in Greece
A beautiful homeland
Oh, so nice and neat!

He laid out the rules
That we all should follow
For a happy today
And a better tomorrow

For we all have a role
A part in this play
Our paradise is near
So listen what I say

To you, my son
Grow up and get stronger
A guardian of country
Of father and mother

Do not cry, do not hesitate
Do not fear death
Do not question your leader
Do not read the wrong texts

Ah, kindness and niceness
Blue eyes and niceness
Goodness and niceness
And la-dee-da niceness

To you, my daughter
Be a sweet and sure mother
If you cry, weep for country
For the strife it endures!

Do not fight, do not struggle
Do not exit your bubble
Do not question your husband
Do not ask for trouble

Ah, kindness and goodness
Blond hair and goodness
Wonder and goodness
And la-la-la goodness

So worry not
Of what all this means
Leave that to the ministers
Who worry for you

They give you a country
Of culture and art
Of pure people popping out
Of homes and of marts

They each have their purpose
Like me and like you
To build a utopia
As the Greeks sought to

No, these are not falsehoods
They're truthhoods, it's true
And falsehoods are no good
If the Führer needs you!